


Small Wire

by rollsofrice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rollsofrice/pseuds/rollsofrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can see all the spaces he used to occupy in John's existence, all papered over now, or filled with something else, and now here he is, the n+1th pigeon back in a world with n pigeonholes, forced to perch in a shared space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Wire

**Author's Note:**

> Leaving and returning are two sides of the same coin, but there is no way to win this particular coin toss.

 

[A-side]

 

It’s dark out. 

When did it get dark out? The new room has good, thick curtains, and he’s long forgotten how much brighter it’s supposed to be outside. The room is booked in a name he doesn’t remember, and his clothes are someone else’s, with labels that scratch the back of his neck as if to remind him they’re the wrong size. His old ones had to be put on the other Sherlock, the one who died - he checks his watch - two hours ago. There are smears of blood on the collar of his good coat; he should take it and stick it under the sink, run some cold water over the stain. 

The phone starts ringing, but it sounds all wrong the way the room has too many edges and imperfectly patterned wallpaper and not enough _John_ - 

\- he draws his knees up to his chest and breathes, and the phone rings loud and foreign. 

 

 

 

[B-side]

 

The lock on the door at Baker Street is still the same, but of course there had been no reason to change it. Sherlock Holmes died; he didn't run off into a joyous life of crime. As far as they know. He leans against the door and thinks about the man he shot in an alley in New Jersey, the dull clink of spent cartridges ejecting themselves from his gun, thinks about how he could hardly hear over the sound of his own heavy breaths, afterward, and how his ears rang for hours with the sound of the gunshot. The gun is long gone now, wrapped in plastic and weighed down with stones at the bottom of a bay he can't remember the name of.

He still has his lockpick set nestled up against his chest, in an inner pocket on his coat, but he needs both hands for that, and it would be a completely unnecessary and foolhardy endeavor at this point. The door swallows his key and dips forward, opening into the warm light of the vestibule, and he stumbles in.

The stairs still creak under his feet, and he wonders if John can hear, up in the sitting room. _If_ he is in the room. He knows John still lives here; he checked and double-checked just to not be stupid enough to come running wildly back into a life he no longer knows.

He finds John in the kitchen.

The kettle is full, but the stove is turned off and no steam is coming out of the spout; he's interrupted the tea-making ritual at its very start. John has a black mug in his left hand. He hasn't slept more than four hours in a week, judging from the red marks feathered across his eyelids and dipping below his eyes, where his hands have worried them raw. Most of his weight is on his left leg, but the absence of scuff marks on the floor indicate he hasn't been using his cane. Hasn't left the flat in days, then. The expiry date on the milk - three days past its sell-by date - confirms this. He's wearing an old jumper, a green one that's too small in the shoulders. Threads are loose at the ends of its sleeves. If it caught on something it could theoretically unravel completely.

 

 

[A.]

 

Later, after a hurried five minutes in the shower (a small cubicle with sharp edges that nudged his knees and elbows until they darkened blue), he rummages through the drawers for the hotel stationery. His hair, still wet, drips a circular path on the carpet.  The previous occupant (mid-forties, probably works in a small company selling surveyor's equipment, unmarried, smoker, owns one dog) has torn the first page off the pad.

The phone's off the hook now; there's no one else it could be, anyhow. Only one person knows both that he's alive and about this room, and it's not whom he wants, but she'll have to do.

"You weren't answering the phone," Molly says, later, having shown up with a set of fresh clothing and a two-hour-old croissant. Her hands are specked with the powdered lining of latex gloves, bloodless.

Sherlock takes the clothes and paper bag from her, pads wordlessly across the room to the desk.

"It's all taken care of," she says, following the statement up with an awkward half-laugh, a social habit stifled a second too late. She looks guiltily at him. Her eyes are swollen, he notices, the cumulative result of the all-nighter and the crying. She lifts a hand to swipe at her eyes, noticing his gaze; she has always been acutely aware of it, the flicker of close attention, if only to glean what it needs, the eyes that love someone else and refuse, indifferent, her wild adulation. He knows, despite the deliberate obtuseness.

She doesn't seem to relish it now, doesn't want any of it. The sides of her mouth twitch, but she doesn't speak.

"Did you," he says; his eyes meet hers and go back to her hands. Of course. He can see that she's been crying. Then, "Why," and there's a sudden flash of panic in those relentlessly searching eyes.

"It's - everything's fine," she rushes to say, and then, more slowly, "Greg - Lestrade, he came in to see - to see you. And John came, too. He looked at the paperwork but not - he couldn't - They made him make a statement. Afterwards, I mean."

Sherlock closes his eyes, opens them again. His fingers whiten, pressed against the glass surface of the desk.

 

 

 

 

[B.]

 

John studies him, looks up from the stove. He puts the mug down on the counter slowly. "I should hit you," he says. Quiet, calm. Hint of a tremor.

"You should," Sherlock agrees, setting his jaw to expect it. He puts both his hands in his pockets and waits. "John-"

They're closer than they were two seconds ago. One of them has taken a step forward; Sherlock can't remember if it's him. He doesn't remember moving, which is strange, because he remembers nearly everything about the last three years, all the waiting and knives under pillows and improvised silencers. John's hand is on his shoulder now, so possibly he means to hold him by the lapels of his coat and then punch him. It's too dark to tell.

Instead, John kisses him hard, pulls a hand through his hair - still light, but growing out at the roots - and presses him up against the kitchen wall, angry. He pulls back, once, to look at Sherlock, but doesn't speak. Sherlock is kissing back, sucking frantically at John's mouth, and there are things, words, apologies he should be breathing into that mouth, but he can't _think -_

 _-_ and John's edging his leg sideways, pressing into Sherlock, and _this is such a bad idea_. The sound that his zipper makes, the teeth pulling apart, startles him, and he gasps and closes his eyes when he feels the warmth of John's fingers on him, gently lifting his cock and pulling on the elastic waistband of his underwear. John's fingers catch on a stray thread and he curses, so Sherlock breathes and moves his hand up to mirror John's movements, clumsily batting at the button fastening the top of his trousers. It's cold, Sherlock suddenly realizes; the heater must be broken again. The tips of his fingers are numb, and - judging from the way John flinches slightly and hisses through his teeth when Sherlock curls his fingers around his glans - still much less warm than the rest of him.

John shifts against Sherlock, his movements becoming more frantic; he won't look at Sherlock, but he won't stop kissing him. His thighs shiver against Sherlock's left hand, his rapidly stiffening cock against Sherlock's right, the palm of which is already slicked with precome. He strokes Sherlock with a tender efficiency, short hard movements up his shaft, his fingers squeezing it slightly.

This feels like a game, suddenly; neither of them deign to speak, and John seems determined to control his obviously growing urge to thrust into Sherlock's fist, even as his cock warms and leaks more evidence of his arousal. Sherlock normally appreciates games, but he's spent the past three years playing one that seemed to never end, and now it's finally - _finally, oh,_ _over_. He's coming, he realizes with a start, coming in hot spurts that he barely feels, and John is looking up at him with an urgent, tight smile. His hand's faltered slightly, he notices, so he continues, stroking a little faster and running a wet finger over the glans, eliciting a short, sharp gasp.

"Oh," John breathes, and Sherlock feels the small warm gust of his exhalation on his throat and, seconds later, the irregular pulsing of his cock and the rush of semen over his fingertips.

They clean up with some paper towels which hang off a roll on the kitchen counter, trading half-glances. John leans against the counter and buttons his trousers, then balls the paper towels up and pads across the kitchen to throw them into the bin.

"John," Sherlock starts, suddenly unsure of what he wants the rest of that sentence to be.

"Don't," says John, and he walks out of the kitchen. The stairs creak. The door opens, then closes.

 

 

[A.]

 

There's a short shopping list on the bed, scratched out on the hotel stationery: _hair dye_ , it says; _new clothes, a pen, a map_. She gets him those and finds herself adding things to the list, because of course he'll need shaving cream and a razor, soon, and an Oyster card, and a toothbrush. And - because he can't possibly carry everything around in that ridiculous cape-like coat of his, regardless of how many magic pockets it has - she gets him a satchel, a cheap ridiculous thing she almost instantly regrets buying.

He looks bewildered now, examining the items emptied on the bedspread, picking up the baseball cap and turning it over in his hands. He's obviously had visitors while she was out - a small package lies unwrapped on the bathroom counter. Probably fake passports; maybe a weapon, unregistered. Someone else knows now, then.

She listens to the trickle of water down the sink. The bed is hard, the blanket thin. She smoothes the surface of the bed under her, fighting the urge to crawl under the duvet.

 

 

[B.]

 

John comes up the stairs again three hours and seven minutes later. Something rustles in a plastic bag against his legs. He draws his arms around himself after he slides his coat off, cursing, and Sherlock knows he's making a mental note to call to have the heater repaired. Maybe he should do it instead, seeing as John is likely to forget, and that it might - well, help. Somehow. If he fixes the heating maybe John will speak again, will tell him he's brilliant. _Wonderful._ He says it to himself in John's voice; he's practiced this in three continents and two hundred and twelve motel rooms, and has had three years to get it right. Imitations have to be compared against their originals to be improved on, of course, so he never knew if he was right or close.

He listens to John move through the kitchen and sigh at Sherlock's damp coat, dumped unceremoniously in the laundry hamper, before he catches himself and stiffens. His leg - right, judging from the sounds of the footfall that follows - catches on a discarded piece of clothing and he stumbles. Conventions of polite behavior dictate that Sherlock should get up and offer to help unload the groceries - although the quality of the rustling means there's probably only a meagre two or three items in the bag - so he considers it for a moment, but decides to stay put.

"Sherlock," says John. Sherlock opens his eyes. John is standing in the middle of the flat, still wearing the same clothes he was in earlier - a dark blue cardigan over an off-white shirt, a combination obviously meant to hide the wrinkled button-up underneath.

In the dark, breathing against John and his back against the wall, Sherlock could see every part of John, how he folded the bottoms of his trousers a little, but inwards, so no one could see - those were ill-fitting, storebought, the kind that John wore all the time and washed and laundered with so much care one would think them a family heirloom. How he refused to look directly at Sherlock, how he bit his lip and closed his eyes as he came into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock blinks, once, and everything falls into place, pieces of John that make sense and bits of him that don't.

"Exactly what," says John, starts John, and he brings a hand up to brush his hair from his forehead, "what," and here his voice changes, dips slightly in volume and pitch. Then, "what are you playing at, Sherlock". There's no lilt. A question. Is it a question?

"You can hit me," Sherlock says. He hasn't quite gotten the rest of his accent back yet; too much time away, and he had to codeswitch far too often, but a bit of it still remains. Can't lose something so ingrained, so innate, he thinks. Not permanently.

John finally looks at him. There's no surprise on his face - _an unexpected observation_ \- and he doesn't speak, just dips his chin and purses his lips.

"Please hit me," Sherlock offers, then; since the auxiliary verb didn't work, a proper verb - a _polite_ one - might. An imperative didn't do it the last time, after all.

This time John sighs. "It doesn't work like that. Sherlock. It just doesn't. I can't hit you and we can't just pretend, after that, that my hitting you makes up for what - what happened." He pauses, and his hands bunch into loose fists. "What you did. You can't just - Bloody hell, my breaking your jaw will not - will _never_ \- and I mean never fucking _ever_ make up for what you -"

He hasn't raised his voice, not even after the pause, not even on _fucking_. In fact his voice is less audible now, and Sherlock turns, looks up at John. He wants to ask what will, but he thinks the answer might be something completely terrible and untenable, like _I never want to see you again_ , or _please go back to being dead, I liked it better that way, I've gotten too used to it_ , or just maybe John won't say anything at all but he'll walk out of the door, upstairs, and pack, and leave.

"I," says Sherlock, at last. It's all he can manage.

"I wouldn't actually," says John suddenly, and he laughs a strange, hollow laugh. "Break your jaw. I wouldn't, you - " and his hand passes over his face again, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes are tightly shut. Sherlock can see his chest move more rapidly under the layers of his clothing, faster and then a little slower - jerky, like he's -

"John."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John murmurs through his hands, both now covering his face.

"Sit down," Sherlock says. "John, sit down. John -"

John does, his hands still over his face. Exactly what should be done in this situation is rather puzzling. There is a box of tissues on the kitchen table, and there are paper towels, and there's a throw wedged in between the couch and the wall, but _which one_ -

"You're a complete bastard, you know that?" John says when Sherlock thrusts his hand onto John's knee, but he lets Sherlock keep it there, a sudden wonderful offering, and Sherlock watches John cry, and John lets him.

 

 

[A.]

 

She wakes up with what feels like hours later, the beginnings of a headache deep inside her skull. The curtains are still drawn, and Sherlock has settled in the chair next to the desk.

"Five hours, twenty minutes, and eight seconds," he says. She wasn't even going to ask. Still a showoff, then, even when he's more deliberately quiet, drawn into himself not to think but to do its opposite. She's only seen him so utterly transparent once before, when -

\- _Oh_. It isn't sadness now, though; in any case there isn't the occasion for him to bother hiding any of it.

"Sherlock -" she starts, and wants to say - what? _I'm sorry, I know you loved him, I could see, even if you couldn't_ \- but that makes it sound like John's dead, which is more than a little backward. She settles instead for, "I have to go. Shift at six."

"Good," he says, and she snaps her head up automatically, indignant. "You know what I mean," he says, tired.

 _I do,_ she thinks but doesn't say. She idly wonders what would have happened if she hadn't stepped into this mess, hadn't seen the terrible despair on his cruel, brilliant face, but of course she always would have, would always have carted off any number of bodies and forged all the necessary signatures to get to right now, the part where he's still alive and breathing.

The worst part of this is that she doesn't know exactly why.  He's sharp, and brilliant, and irresistible, but she doesn't love him. No one completely sane ever could. And if he loved back - she laughs slightly at the thought, because Sherlock would love like he covets, fiercely jealous and languidly possessive.

"Will you still - be here?" she asks, pulling her coat on, only half-ashamedly thinking about the receipts crumpled in her pockets, the frankly ludicrous amount of money she has spent in the last few hours.

"No," Sherlock says. "I don't think I should. I have to -" and then he stiffens, because of course this part is a secret. "It's best if you don't know," he finishes. He looks odd with light coloured hair, she thinks; he could almost pass for someone else now, with the badly cut fringe and the oversized shirts she bought him. He's still in his old coat, playing gestalt duck-rabbit while there's still time.

"I'll be going, then," she says, her things all gathered up in a bag hanging half off her shoulder.

"Molly," he says, and he cocks his head sideways a little, like he's remembering something. He's clearly decided against attempting to smile when he says, "Thank you," as he presses his lips together and looks slightly confused.

 

 

[B.]

 

They're back now, Sherlock thinks, back to normal. More or less.

This morning John came downstairs and didn't start for the first time since Sherlock's been back; he'd flinched noticeably, the first few days, suddenly remembering without being glad, just startled and angry, and _remembering_ , and he'd just sucked in a breath before stalking straight into their kitchen. He speaks to Sherlock now, but far more carefully. He kissed him once, on Monday, but Sherlock had frozen ( _stupid_ ) and John had stopped, pulled back and smiled wryly. Sadly.

"Won't happen again," he'd said, and left.

Now he's watching Sherlock watch him, but he doesn't know it yet. He's relaxed, watchful, his lips pursed as he divides his attention between the book and Sherlock. His cup of tea rests on the coffee table, creating a stain they'll have to cover up later - maybe with a stack of books, or one of Sherlock's more successful experiments. Sherlock's in the middle of one he is fairly certain will fall into that category, although it has the potential for disaster (like all real, good experiments do). His new protective goggles have yet to arrive - his old ones have been donated to one of the schools, a shame - so he does without them.

Of course, the experiment goes wrong in the most ridiculously avoidable way.

He trips on the chair leg as he walks past it, holding the beaker, and ends up spilling sulfuric acid over the floorboards. Some gets on his wrist, and he hisses sharply. It isn't all that concentrated, at least, but it still makes for a burn that will be distractingly raw for days.

"Sherlock." John's thrown the book down and is already crouching beside him, the good doctor, gripping his wrist and turning it gingerly. "Jesus," he murmurs, looking down at the smoke rising from the floorboards. (The acid was probably a bit more concentrated than he'd intended. Sherlock winces.)

John examines his wrist, then looks up at him. "I - there isn't a first aid kit around here anymore." It got thrown out, Sherlock deduces, around the same time the rest of his lab equipment did. Eminently practical, John would probably have kept the kit if it hadn't contained several additions that made it another memento, stinging salt in the mouth, blood from a wound. (That was backward.)

John stands, looking sheepish and uncertain all at once. "You should probably rinse that," he says. "Mild soapy water." He moves to the sink, mixing cold water in a cup and creating a lather with the soap.

 

 

 

[A.]

 

A ten-hour flight and two security checks later, he is standing at the baggage carousel. All his belongings fit into his carry-on, a medium-sized duffel bag with a zip that closes on the bag's lining and lopsided stitching along the handle. It'll probably fall apart before he gets to the hotel, he thinks. _If_ he gets to the hotel. He pushes one of the baggage trolleys with one hand; he doesn't actually need it, but it'll put any tails he has at ease, make them think they have time to let down their guard while he gets his luggage from the belt. He puts both hands in his pockets and looks up at the signage, sans-serif white on black, English and Chinese. He had hoped the trail would lead somewhere he could speak the language of, or at least blend in, but here it's close to impossible. Could work in the tourist-saturated spots - he could buy a horrible t-shirt and casual footwear, a disposable camera - but not where he needs to go. He bites back the frustration and stalks toward Arrivals.

He browses the books at one of the shops, buys a phrase-book and tries out new words, strange words. There's no way he can pass for anything near experienced, of course, but at least he'll be able to ask simple questions, and manipulating fingers or wrists or injured ribs will do the rest. The phrase-book, rather annoyingly, doesn't contain words that would be immensely useful, like _don't shoot_ or _I have a gun_. There's _help_ , and _hello_ , and _friend_ , so he figures scrounging up something that resembles friendliness and a touristlike guilelessness might allow him to survive a few moments more, until the weapon pointed at him gets into range and he's at least able to, in theory, repossess it.

He sighs. There's nothing about what he's planning on doing that's particularly brilliant or even advisable. He's in a place he's only ever seen on television in simulacrum, only thought about once or twice, he's going after a vast criminal organization without a gun or any idea where to start. Forget _best of a bad situation_ ; there's nothing remotely salvageable in this one.

 

 

[B.]

 

"Sherlock." John swallows, pushing his hand lightly against the collar of Sherlock's shirt - a feeble protest, Sherlock thinks; one that fairly ridiculous at this stage. John's trousers are already bunched around his ankles, the beltless loops around the waistband curling up at his shin, and Sherlock's got his fingers curled around John's cock. He's crouched between John's spread thighs, a fairly uncomfortable position, so he shifts, moves his hand and slides his knees to the floor, resting his left hand on John's bare knee. John smiles down at him, threading a hand through his hair.

"Need to get that cut," he murmurs, pressing his fingers lightly into Sherlock's scalp.

"Yes," Sherlock says, and bends over to press his tongue to John's cock, which is half-hard in his palm and slowly becoming harder despite John's soft sounds of protest. _Sherlock_ , he's saying, _Sherlock, I -_ so Sherlock takes his mouth off John, for a moment, says _okay?_ and John nods tightly, closing his eyes and relaxing fractionally.  He draws in a slow breath when Sherlock kisses the skin of his bare thigh and moves up to the dip and curve of his hipbones, the edge, and moves his hands in Sherlock's hair, gentle.

Sherlock takes John's cock into his mouth slowly, lifting his teeth clear and remembering to breathe properly. John bucks a little, stops, whispers _sorry_ and opens his eyes again, watching Sherlock. His chest is turning a remarkable shade of pink, the flush of color reaching his collarbone, and he moans several times, whines, pushes greedily into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock brings his hand up to touch John, pressing fingers against his side while, inside his mouth, he tongues John's glans, licks gently at it and tastes - tastes salt-ash, odd but not unpleasant, like the aftertaste of something terrible and strange. He takes a breath and tightens and loosens his mouth around John, tasting.

"Sherlock," John says suddenly, a low whisper, " _Sherlocksherlockohgod_ ," and he arches his body back, his neck bared to the ceiling, coming in warm wet spurts that spill into Sherlock's palm and onto John's trousers, a spreading dark patch. He can still taste John, an insistent salty cling on the underside of his tongue, and feel his own erection, pressing up against the inside of his trousers, heavy and impossible to ignore. John lifts his head and laughs softly, taking Sherlock's hand. It's sticky and warm with his come, and Sherlock's fingers curl inward involuntarily.

"Maybe we should have thought a little bit ahead," John says, looking around for something to wipe off on while Sherlock shifts, impatient.

John sees, and smiles, leaning forward to press his mouth against Sherlock's. He pulls Sherlock onto the couch, next to him, and brushes his fingers over the front of Sherlock's trousers; it's his clean hand, the one clenched in Sherlock's hair. He unzips Sherlock's trousers and pulls his underwear aside with a deliberate slowness. Sherlock impatiently brings a hand up to John's; he tries to glare and he fails, feeling John's fingers on his cock, curled around it and moving, stroking with a dizzyingly consistent rhythm. John's face and neck are still a faint red, and there are teeth-marks on his lower lip. His untucked shirt has fallen over the unzipped front of his trousers, and Sherlock wants to _touch_ him-

"John," he says, hoarse.

An odd warmth is spreading from between his thighs, his pelvis, his bones and the marrow in them, the _cells_ \- he knows what it feels like, being touched, but it's never the same every time, always something he knows imperfectly. He wills his thoughts to static, white noise, but things bleed through. John's hands, he thinks, rough and gentle and scarred and whole, all at the same time, and then _metaphase, anaphase, telophase_. Mitosis - cells splitting, and dividing, and replicating, and John's mouth, soft and hesitant, planting a kiss on the side of his neck, his hands still moving, only more slowly now, more deliberately, and - oh, _oh._ Sherlock can still think - the myth of sexual pleasure turning man into a single-minded creature is _clearly_ more wishful thinking than observation-based theory - but he doesn't want to. He wants to press his forehead to John's and reach out and touch John's wrists, John's chest, John's elbows, the bumps of his ribs' edges and the thin delicate skin of his testicles.

He comes silently, a hand curled behind John's neck, holding him fast.

 

 

[A.]

 

He makes two lists that first night in a different country, one on the hotel stationery and one in his head. Thinking about the second list makes him hurt, physically, a strange ghosting up his arms to his elbows, so he thinks about the first a lot more. The second list is the list of things he must not think about, so it is rather a self-defeating notion, but he's had worse paradoxes to navigate.

> **_The Second List:_ **
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. John.
> 
> 7\. How 1) makes tea.
> 
> 18\. The set of all sets that do not contain themselves.
> 
> 27\. The sound of a voice when the person to whom it belongs is smiling.
> 
> 52\. Patterned wallpaper.
> 
>  

The first list is easier, just names and places and a little square, empty for now, to fill with little crosses. It's probably foolish to carry it on him - one mistake could have this list in the wrong hands, and all the people on it would either turn and run, or (more likely) ready their weapons of choice and be ready for him, which doesn't at all bode well for the _element of surprise_ part of his plan. Where there is a plan. He should tear it up and memorize it. Wrong order. Memorize it, then tear it up, burn it with the matches in the dresser drawer, soak it in water until the ink bleeds all over the paper.

But - all things considered - he can probably allow himself one more foolish thing, so he slips the piece of paper back into his pocket.

 

 

[B.]

 

"We should probably - uh, talk about this sometime," John mumbles, a small smile crooking the sides of his mouth. He lifts his head to look at Sherlock and tilts to meet his gaze. "We can't keep, you know." He sighs, makes a sound Sherlock doesn't understand. "Doing this. I mean, Christ, we - _you_ , you were dead and then you came back, and among other bad decisions we got each other off that same bloody afternoon. I just - " He brings a hand up to touch the bridge of his nose, pressing on it lightly. "And clearly we've tried that thing where we both pretend nothing happened, and that isn't working."

 _Clearly._ Sherlock can see all the spaces he used to occupy in John's existence, all papered over now, or filled with something else, and now here he is, the _n+1_ th pigeon back in a world with _n_ pigeonholes, forced to perch in a shared space. John is talking a lot. Talking too much. He never used to - well, not _at_ Sherlock anyway, not this way. He talked to no one in particular, sometimes said things to help himself remember. Is he relearning Sherlock, gouging out another pigeonhole, or is he doing the opposite, cataloguing space and realizing he has too little now? Coming to discover that he rearranged his life around an absence and now only realizing, suddenly realizing, that everything no longer fits?

Sherlock swallows. He doesn't speak. He can't. Everything is obvious, and everything is terrible, gratuitous, brimming with a barely realized unhappiness. John is a small dark shape in his peripheral field of vision, motionless.

"You're - angry," Sherlock finally says.

"No," says John, the first single-word sentence he's uttered. He talks a lot like the old John sometimes. "I'm not. I was, I suppose, I mean - three years, Sherlock. Three years and you didn't even think for one moment that maybe the people you knew" (- here he hesitates a little, seems to consider -) "the people who _cared_ might want to know?"

"You," Sherlock says, and then, "He was going to kill you." He thinks it's the right thing to say. It makes everything seem unselfish. (He can't say _selfless_ , because he isn't by any stretch of the imagination _that_. Only maybe for a moment, on the roof of St. Bart's, uttering John's name, but other than that. No.)

John gives him a look. Sherlock's told him that already, all about Moriarty and the three snipers, about the exchange on the roof, so it isn't surprise that crosses his face. "Three years," he repeats, and Sherlock wants to say _I know, stop saying it, I spent every single one of those days thinking about what I would do when they were over, and I forced myself not to count_.

"That's a marvelous bloody reason if you meant it for the approximately five minutes of complete and utter bastardry you performed, making me watch you jump," John says, the anger coming back into his face, into his voice. "I mean, for God's sake, not _once_ during three years did you think you could trust me with my own life?" His hand goes up to his face again, this time to touch his forehead, and he leans into it, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"I didn't mean," says Sherlock, and considers the rest of that sentence. "I didn't think -" He can't finish it. "John."

"There isn't a moment when you don't _think_ , you stupid clot," John says, the anger seemingly giving way to a wry, fond familiarity.

Sherlock searches for the right words, coming up with an approximation of them. "I'm - sorry."

The sides of John's mouth tighten. His eyes change, something sliding away behind them. Oh. No. Not the right thing then. A remedy, _a remedy -_ Sherlock can never think quickly enough when he wants to, for the right things, the important things. The normal things.

"Don't say something you don't mean," John says, biting the words into sounds, angry again. Appeased, then angered. Impossibly calm, impossibly mercurial John. "Don't say something because you fucking think you have to, Sherlock. Please just -"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock offers again, and he's never apologized, certainly not twice in a row, but there was that aphorism about desperate times and measures. "I mean it. I think I - I do. John, I -  twenty-seven people, I killed twenty-seven people to get back. To you, I mean. And I don't regret it."

John looks at him. "Of course you don't, you mad bastard." He extends a hand, aims for Sherlock's knee but lets it drop before it reaches there. "You're not going to live this down," he says quietly, wincing briefly, but hiding it well, after the words leave his mouth. He's still angry, but it's beneath the surface now, a simmering half-rage.

"No," Sherlock agrees, and _is he forgiven?_ He closes the distance between them, two short steps, and presses himself into John. The loose threads of John's jumper tickle his chin, and he can listen to John breathe, a soft waxy noise that settles in his throat. John breathes, and Sherlock listens, and he is forgiven.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Anne Sexton's poem, 'Small Wire': Love and a cough/ cannot be concealed./ Even a small cough./ Even a small love.


End file.
